I Gues the Winter Makes You Laugh A Little Slower
by Elske
Summary: I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower. Lonlier than they're willing to admit, shared. Henry/Juliet, who has a reason to believe maybe next year will be better than the last.  But totally not a songfic.


[[Author's Note:

I'm so sorry to disappoint any of you who are on the edges of your seats waiting for your giftfics! I've a couple of them in progress and I actually sat at the computer tonight fully intending to write one of them, and then I realized I was far too melancholy to write fluffyslash and I was far too melancholy to write smuttyslash and then this story just _happened_. I don't know.

I am in the worst crankypants mood ever – oh how I hate New Years – so if anyone wants to pass me fic recommendations to cheer me up, that would be awesome. I love Shassie. And apparently I now ship Henry/Jules. Who knew?

I love you all, dear readers. Thanks for giving me a reason to keep writing. I had a professor once say that words don't exist until someone else reads them. So thank you for helping me exist.

I'll be back to the slash soon.

&hearts, Elske]]

Maybe it's because he's a cop or maybe it's just because he's a gentleman, but when he sees the young woman in the grocery store sobbing in the wine aisle: he can't help but approach, can't help but want to _help_ and maybe he's been spending too much time with his son after all.

"Excuse me," he says, softly, and the woman turns her head, a waterfall of blonde waves over her shoulder and her eyes go very wide.

"Oh, ohgod, _Henry_," and she sniffles, tries to catch her breath, wipes her nose with the back of the hand that's not cradling the green glass bottle of wine.

And it's Henry Spencer's turn to look startled. "Juliet. I'm sorry," because it's the first thing he can think of to say, because he's embarrassed, because: this is a different Juliet, a Juliet out of context, out of her suit and out of her office and apparently as damnably fragile as every woman in the world has a right to be now and again.

"No, no, it's…" a pause, and she's trying to catch her breath, trying to force a smile, wiping at her eyes again. "It's…"

Henry fumbles in the pocket of his shorts, finds a Kleenex that's seen better days, but he hands it to her anyway, because who says chivalry is dead. "I didn't realize it was you. I just thought…you were someone who might have been in trouble, or…"

Juliet takes the proffered tissue, blows her nose, shakes her head, veils her face again in her hair. "I feel so…foolish…"

"I can leave you to it? If you want to pretend this never happened?" He doesn't quite know how to behave in a situation like this: rapes and murders and robberies he can handle but there wasn't anything in his training about a colleague in tears in a grocery store.

"No!" Juliet says, far too quickly, turning her head and fixing her gaze on Henry. "Do you ever have one of those days when all you can do is think about what you've done wrong in your life? And then you get superstitious because the world just keeps throwing reminders your way." Her grip falters on the bottle, and Henry tilts his head to read the lable.

"Ten year Portuguese Madeira? An odd choice, but a refined one."

Juliet's eyes are lowered and she doesn't look at Henry when she speaks. "There were so many reasons to leave Miami, Henry, and a wine-snob was one of them. The most charming man in the world."

"Tall, dark, handsome?"

"Only the handsome part of it. He was also married. I didn't know at the time, and…it's stupid." She looks at the bottle, and then she looks at Henry. "You must have a party to go to tonight, that's why you're out shopping?"

It's Henry's turn to look confused. "A party?"

"For new years," Juliet says, in a small small voice, and Henry shakes his head.

"If you consider drinking beer and sitting in front of my television a party," and he has a self-depreciating grin – so similar to his son's! – and Juliet reaches out, touches his shoulder.

"Do you want some company, then? I'll bring the wine."

She doesn't quite say it, that she doesn't want to be alone just now, but Henry Spencer is smart enough to read between the lines.

[[*******]]

Henry's only on his second beer: he's lost track of how much Juliet's been drinking, and he scolds himself mentally for not keeping a better eye on her: fortified wine is strong, and somehow he's become the appointed one to watch over her this night. And there's a stab of guilt somewhere, because he knows how his son feels about the beautiful girl sprawled easily across three quarters of his sofa, and because part of him wishes he didn't _have_ to think about Shawn, right now.

"Tell me another story, another cop story, please Henry?" Juliet asks, and this time when she smiles it's a real enough smile to make her eyes glitter. And yes, there's part of Henry who wishes that wasn't purely to blame on the alcohol.

"Only if you tell me one of your cop stories next," he acquiesces and he doesn't notice that Juliet's only picked up the madeira bottle once and that her wineglass is only three quarters full.

[[*******]]

"Shit," Henry says, looking up at the clock, "I think we missed it," and Juliet's giggling, rummaging through the sofa cushions for the remote control. By the time they get the television on all the time-delayed excitement in the east coast times square is over, and a sub-par musical act is playing, and Henry scowls as he gets up to turn the television off.

"I have a guest room," he murmurs, a bit awkwardly. "If you don't think you can drive."

"Drive?" Juliet abandons her mostly-full glass with a flourish, spilling wine on the coffee-table. "I don't think I can even _walk_, Henry." She looks at him imploringly and he stoops to pull her into his arms.

"You know," she says, in a very small voice, "If Shawn were more like you, I would give in to his endless suggestions. But if Shawn were more like you he wouldn't make them."

Henry tries to figure out what it is that she's saying, if it's that she wishes Shawn were there or if she wishes Shawn would stop flirting with her: it's certainly not that she's attracted to _him_. But there's something mesmerizing about the way she feels in his arms, about the half-moon shape her bared feet make and the way her hair smells like spices.

He leans down to deposit her in the bed in the guest room, but she surprises him by reaching out, fisting both her hands in the front of his gaudy shirt. "Henry, _stay, _please?" Her eyes are wide and innocent, pleading. "I might have a nightmare, or be ill."

It's a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. "Just until you fall asleep," he says.

[[*******]]

The first time Henry wakes up he remembers, all of a sudden, what's going on: that he's in his guest room with the woman his son flirts with as though it's his job. And then he thinks that his son flirts with everyone, even Detective Lassiter. And then he thinks about what Juliet said earlier and then he thinks that the house is cold and he's tired and the girl curled up in his bed is warm.

So he drowsily snuggles closer, loops an arm around her waist, presses an automatic kiss to the back of her neck like he did every night in bed with Madeline, closes his eyes and tucks his head in against her shoulder and hopes she won't be upset when she sobers up in the morning.

[[*******]]

The second time he wakes up he can see a greyish sunlight through the curtains, and Juliet's humming to herself; he feels her hand covering his, lifting it gently, and suddenly he's cupping a breast. He's drowsy enough to let instinct carry over, he shifts closer to her, clinging, not wanting to open his eyes: still feeling guilty but not remembering why, and then he hears her voice, singing under her breath _maybe this year will be better than the last_. She sighs, turns her head, murmurs "Good morning, Henry," and then she's kissing him and this, Henry thinks, has the potential to be a wonderful year.


End file.
